I walk clutching a bible in my hand, god in the other.

The park dogs sniff the smell of god, while the old men like to look at my bible.

They plead I swirl and flip my hair for them.

I don’t ask why. I swirl and run before I hear their frail small gasps.

Old gangsters that now look like turtles,

block my way home. Their slow shifts impede my walking straight.

I try to act childlike. They cannot linger on my clothes or hair or bible.

Still, I want the burned leather to show conspicuously,

like the sleeves of skin on their dead fingers and lips.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s